


Elf Wanted

by triggeringthehealing (froggydarren)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sterek, Derek comes back to Beacon Hills, Derek drives a Camaro, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Mall Santa Elves, Stiles' Jeep is called Roscoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggydarren/pseuds/triggeringthehealing
Summary: It's really not what he thought he'd be doing with his evenings leading up to Christmas. But here he is, dressed in green, jingle bells on the tip of his hat, and he still doesn't remember how Lydia managed to talk him into it. Of course, she claims it was his choice, not that Stiles believes her. 
By closing time of the Santa Grotto, he's more than ready to rest his feet. Fate, however, is waiting for him with surprises that feature snow and a grumpy werewolf.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [12 Days of Sterek](http://12daysofsterek.tumblr.com/). Features amazing art by [aredblush](http://aredblush.tumblr.com). [Link to be added]

It was really a misfortune that he and Lydia ended up at the same college, or at least that’s what Stiles is thinking right now. Because at one point during their first post-midterm celebration when they were stuck at the dorms and with each other, she -- and Stiles will fight her on this -- unfairly used her wiles to make him agree to this torture. Lydia told him it was his idea, but he wasn’t _that_ drunk. At least that’s what his Dad is supposed to believe when it comes to Stiles’ college experiences while still underage.

But here he is, at the Beacon County Mall’s yearly Santa’s Grotto, far enough from Beacon Hills that he knows he won’t be home anywhere close to a decent hour. He knows it’ll take him at least an hour to get back into town after the mall closes. And he’s wearing a green pointy hat with jingle bells, along with a costume that is tight and -- he doesn’t want to dwell on this part too hard -- on loan from the mall itself. Which means it was probably worn by several other people before it was given to Stiles. Lydia is nowhere to be seen, even though she swore to him that she was also on the schedule for tonight. Instead, there’s another elf manning the line and the entrance to the actual Santa’s Grotto -- which is really one of the empty units in the mall -- and he knows there’s one more helping out inside.

“Lydia, love of my life, moon to my stars,” he says with a smile that’s as fake as it can get when she finally appears, and he frowns when he sees that she’s in her in regular clothes. “Hey, I thought you said you were working too!”

“I _was_ ,” she says lightly. “I was inside, helping with the photos and stuff,” she tells him, waving her hand at the Grotto’s entrance.

“But… that’s not… you’re not…” Stiles stumbles over his words, and he steps to the side, pulling her along. “I thought you were supposed to wear a costume!” He’s stage-whispering just a little too loud, and earns himself a shushing from Lydia _and_ the other elf nearby.

“Don’t ruin the experience,” Lydia tells him with a frown. “I _was_ in costume, but I’m finished now, so…” she doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, and raises an eyebrow at him like she’s challenging him to argue.

“Why was I scheduled until close?” Stiles grumbles, and cringes when he shakes his head and the bells jingle on top of his head.

“So that I could finish early,” she says with a winning smile. “Why do you think I put your name forward? Well, besides the paycheck you’ll get at the end of the week.”

“Ha! It _was_ your idea!” He loses the stage-whisper, and again hears the “shhh” sound behind his back.

“I just put a good word in after you expressed interest,” Lydia tells him sweetly. “It was absolutely something _you_ wanted to do. For the _children_ , Stiles, think of the children!”

She’s outright gleeful while he bites back several highly inappropriate responses to her words.

“Now, be a good elf, and go do your job or Santa won’t be happy,” she says then, maneuvering him back towards the slow-moving line of kids waiting at the Grotto.

Stiles is still fighting the grumbling that threatens to escape his lips, but by the time he’s at the beginning of the line, he has his happy game -- or _elf_ \-- face on. Behind it, his mind is running through plans to get back at Lydia, his internal monologue peppered with choice words he knows he’ll have to be careful not to slip while he’s surrounded by kids.

_Think of the children, right_ , he thinks as he ushers the next one towards the Grotto when the light changes.

He remarked on how good a system it is when he first got there - there’s a light above the entrance that’s either red or green, to signal whether Santa is available. The elves outside don’t need to go in, and whoever is on the inside doesn’t need to come out to call the next kid. The exit is at the back, through a winter wonderland scenery that Stiles got to see when Lydia led him through the set a few days earlier so he would know how it worked. By the time the child gets to the end of the walk, another person is already waiting there with a nicely framed photo, freshly printed and -- Stiles rolled his eyes at the cost -- paid for by the adults accompanying the child.

It keeps him away from almost every other employee besides the elf working at the line where he is now. This one, a guy who’s younger and taking it a little too seriously, is clearly staying until closing time just like Stiles. He’s good at dealing with the kids _and_ the parents, which is why Stiles has been delegated to do the hand-off to the Grotto. Less danger of saying anything inappropriate, even if he does have to talk a little.

“Now, it looks like Santa is ready for his next visitor, if you’d please follow me towards the Grotto,” he recites his line with mock cheer.

He shakes his head a little as he walks so the bells jingle, and he notices the little girl staring at them with curiosity when they stop.

“What if I want to meet Mrs. Claus instead?”

Stiles freezes for a beat, because -- and it actually surprises him -- that question hasn’t come up since he started.

“Well, you might be lucky and she might be inside,” he improvises, at a loss for what the official response is, _if_ there is one. “And if she happens to be away, I’m sure Santa will deliver a message to her.”

The girl -- she looks to be about five years old -- sighs, her disappointment obvious. Then, without as much as a thank you, she marches right inside. Stiles wonders if Santa is in for some serious questioning from her, and he can’t help but chuckle as he walks back to the line. He flashes back to himself at about that age, and for a second feels a little sorry for the poor guy caught in being Santa Claus. It’s not likely that most of the kids would be as direct and cheeky as Stiles used to be, but there were bound to be a few who’d be challenging.

It’s late when the line starts looking smaller -- Stiles tries to not be jealous of the kids who got to stay up this late for the Santa visit -- and he’s barely managing to walk without wincing. The shoes he’s been given are the furthest thing from comfortable, and his glares towards the Grotto are becoming more and more obvious. Whoever is manning that side of the process is taking their sweet time ushering the children through. Stiles is about ready to burst in and move things along when his co-elf Nathan points out that there are only five kids left.

“Finally,” Stiles mutters under his breath, and he glances towards the Grotto’s entrance.

There’s a clock just above it, and he cringes when he sees the time. They let the younger kids skip ahead so they’d get home soon, and the ones who are left are kids almost older than what Stiles considers an age appropriate to still believe in Santa. Of course, his own childhood beliefs were shattered too early, when his Mom started getting sick and Santa couldn’t deliver health for her.

He ushers the last few children through, and when the last one walks inside, he finds that Nathan managed to sneak away, leaving Stiles to tidy up. He walks around the area, switching the Grotto signs to “closed” and adjusting the times for the next opening on them, and he ropes off the area as he was instructed before he started. When he’s finished, he notices that the light above the Grotto’s entrance is closed, and spots a flash of red at the back -- the Santa leaving. Stiles sighs and speeds up as he heads to the one changing room that the elves were given, ready to get out.

“Hey, you can’t…” a voice greets him when he bursts in.

It’s familiar, way too familiar for Stiles’ liking, and he turns sharply to the corner it came from. The moment he sees who’s there, he freezes and his eyes widen in shock.

“Derek?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice oddly resigned. “Of course.”

“Of course what? How?” Stiles blurts out, confused by Derek’s words.

“I should’ve known Lydia would bring you here,” Derek says, not really answering the question.

“What are you…?” Stiles starts asking, his eyes still glued to the green fabric on Derek, a departure from just about anything he’d ever seen him wear.

Sure, it’s been some time since Derek wore nothing but black and leather, but _green_ is still far away from the usual muted colors. Not to mention that while the elf hat is on the hook next to Derek’s head, it was at some point _on_ the head, and that’s an image Stiles’ brain can’t compute.

That’s when it clicks with him that he’s still in the same outfit too, jingle bells and all, and he ducks his head, wincing at the sound coming from his own hat. There is no way to do any of this with dignity, he realises, so he tugs the hat off at least, and tries to not cringe too much at the noise.

“Right, anyway, I’m just gonna…” Stiles says, waving his hand at the lockers lining the wall.

Derek doesn’t respond, not that Stiles is waiting for it. Once he has his regular clothes out of the locker, he debates the possibility of walking to his car in the elf outfit, though he was instructed to leave it in the locker rooms. He’s interrupted by the sound of the door clicking and when he turns around, there’s no sign of Derek anywhere. Stiles breathes out in relief and quickly changes, because the last thing -- after the encounter with Derek -- he wants is to be locked in the mall for the night.

When he rushes towards the staff exit, the security guy opens it with a frown and an unimpressed glare. Stiles slips through the door, mumbling hurried apologies, and he doesn’t look back as he heads for his Jeep.

He expects it to be the only car in the lot besides the security van that’s there for the night, but he freezes when there’s another one only a few spaces away. There’s no time to dwell on how he didn’t notice the familiar Camaro when he arrived, because Derek is getting out. Which makes no sense, because Derek left the locker room before Stiles, and he should be driving _away_.

“Forget something?” Stiles blurts out before he has a chance to sort out the thoughts in his head.

Derek grumbles something, and Stiles narrows his eyes. He watches as Derek walks to the front hood and pops it open. A minute passes, and Stiles is starting to feel the chill of the air seep through his clothes. Something stops him from just climbing in his Jeep and driving away, though he does walk the last few steps towards it. There’s a gust of wind that makes him shiver, and he thinks that he really should get in his Jeep and go home where it’s warm, but one glance at Derek tells him that he’d be leaving him stranded. So instead Stiles lets go of the handle that his hand just landed on, and he marches over to the Camaro.

“You okay, dude?” Stiles asks when he’s close.

Derek doesn’t react, and Stiles rolls his eyes because he knows he spoke loud enough -- not that he even needed to, with Derek’s hearing -- and Derek is just ignoring him.

“Need a tow? A jump start? I’m pretty sure Roscoe can provide both. Including a ride home, if that’s what would get us both out of here,” Stiles rambles, and when he stops he can feel his teeth chatter.

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek grunts, barely glancing up from the engine that’s at a clear standstill, snowflakes landing all over it.

“See, I can’t do that,” Stiles tells him, and sees Derek’s sigh instead of hearing it. “You’re obviously not driving away from here, and my Dad raised a responsible and solid citizen who wouldn’t leave anyone stranded, grumpy sourwolves included.”

He can hear the snort that Derek lets out, and Stiles considers that a win even if it’s obviously _not_ because Derek agrees with him. It also leads to a closed hood and Derek turning to face Stiles.

“I’m okay, I can run home,” he says, and Stiles narrows his eyes before he shakes his head.

“Dude, it’s like, polar temperatures,” he tells Derek. “And we’re miles away from town. You’d freeze your furry ass off.”

His mind stutters at the image of said ass, and Stiles tries to push that thought away, because there are more pressing matters to be dealt with. Namely, he needs to stop Derek from being stubborn and freezing to death as a result.

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek says, his shoulders high and clearly bracing against the cold.

“Look, my car is right there,” Stiles tells him, waving his hand in the general direction of his Jeep. “I’m going into town anyway. Because, you know, I have to get home and all. No one drives out this way once the mall is closed, _plus_ it’s snowing…”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Derek mumbles, snark dripping from every word.

“So there’s even less of a chance that someone will randomly drive by and give you a ride,” Stiles continues, ignoring the interruption. “Look, I don’t know why you don’t want _me_ to drive you, but can you get over whatever hang-up that you have and let me get you at least somewhere that’s not the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s not… I don’t…” Derek starts, and then he pauses to sigh more dramatically than Stiles thinks is absolutely necessary. “It’s not that it’s _you_.”

“Is it my car, then?” Stiles asks with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Because I’ll have you know, Roscoe is my baby, and if you insult Roscoe, you’re insulting me. He’s seen worse days, he can manage a little snow.”

“A little,” Derek deadpans and looks around the parking lot. “And I know. I’ve seen the car before. I’m just surprised it still drives at all.”

Stiles huffs with indignation.

“Just get in the Jeep. We’ll discuss your disrespect for Roscoe, and for my ability to keep him functioning as I’m driving you home,” he says resolutely.

At least he hopes that’s what comes across. He’s not sure though, and he knows that it’s more likely that he sounds like he’s pleading, but even that is unclear since his teeth are chattering loud enough that it drowns out his own words.

“Fine,” Derek finally says, and turns to lock up the Camaro.

Stiles lets out a relieved shaky sigh, and walks back to his Jeep, his whole body shaking as another gust of wind blows across the empty space. When he finally climbs into the driver’s seat, there’s no relief from the cold though, because Roscoe’s been out in the cold for hours. It always takes a little while to warm up the car, and Stiles fumbles and almost drops the key in his rush to start the engine so he can turn the heat on. He’s so focused on doing it that he completely misses Derek getting in the passenger seat, and when he looks up, he lets out a startled noise.

“Shit, make some noise when you move,” he hisses at Derek through his teeth.

“You’re cold,” Derek says like a statement, one that’s completely pointless in Stiles’ opinion.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he snaps back. “It’s fucking freezing. And not all of us have inbuilt heat.”

Derek reaches towards Stiles’ hand, and it’s a move surprising enough that Stiles lets him take the keys and watches as Derek puts the right one in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life moments later, and Stiles gets his bearings enough to flip the heating switch on high.

“Right, let’s go,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and pulls out of the parking lot.

His radio is broken, so they drive in silence, which alone wouldn’t be unsettling to Stiles, but Derek’s presence makes him uneasy. Not because he’s afraid, but having someone in the car always makes him feel like he should be having a conversation. Since it’s Derek, though, Stiles has absolutely no idea what he could talk about. His mind is spinning with questions he _wants_ to ask, but none of them seem suitable for the drive, or well, for no occasion. It seems especially risky to be asking Derek about things that could cause a volatile reaction while they’re in a moving vehicle. After all, Stiles already has a memory of his head’s encounter with the steering wheel when they were both in the same car.

“Stop it,” Derek grumbles a few miles into the drive.

“Stop what? Driving?” Stiles shoots back.

“I can hear you thinking,” Derek says. “I know your mind is running non-stop. Just ask what you want to ask.”

“How would you know that I want to ask something?”

“Because you _always_ do,” Derek says, and his tone makes Stiles glance over.

There was a hint of amusement in Derek’s voice, and there _is_ a hint of a smile on his lips when Stiles looks.

“And you always hate when I do ask,” he says when his eyes are back on the road.

“It’s way more irritating to know that you’re going to be twitching all the way to town because you have _questions_ ,” Derek says.

“Right now, trust me, any questions I might have,” Stiles starts, and he can hear Derek snort right around when he says ‘might’. He ignores it, and keeps talking. “Or any questions that your answers could lead to are better off asked when we’re _not_ in an enclosed space without witnesses to whatever threats you’d throw in my direction _or_ follow through on.”

“Stiles, just ask.”

Stiles shakes his head in response, and focuses on the road. He can hear the various creaks that Roscoe is letting out, and it’s enough to pull his attention away from the things he’s curious about. Derek huffs next to him, and when Stiles dares a glance over, he sees that Derek has turned to stare out the side window. Tension is filling up the Jeep rapidly, and Stiles is about to open his mouth when Roscoe’s engine makes a noise that he doesn’t recognise, and then there’s silence.

“What?” Stiles blurts out, hands clenching around the steering wheel as the Jeep comes to a slow stop in the middle of the road.

There are a few beats of nothing but the sounds of his and Derek’s breathing, and Stiles could swear that he can hear his own heart pounding. He’s sure Derek does.

Not that Derek says anything. There’s a hint of a growl from the passenger seat that Stiles deliberately blocks out and pretends he didn’t hear, but otherwise there’s nothing else.

“Fuck,” he lets out under his breath, but in the quiet it seems to bounce off everything in the Jeep and echoes as if he used a megaphone. “So, that happened,” he adds a little louder, with resignation.

“You were saying about the Jeep’s reliability?”

The amused tone in Derek’s voice catches Stiles off guard, and he whips his head to the side, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

“Did you just…?”

He wants to ask if Derek’s joking, but the words freeze on his tongue. Not literally, of course, because the heat is still in the cabin, though he already knows that it won’t last long. The Jeep really isn’t built for frost and winter, not with the canvas parts of the roof that his Mom had chosen back in the day and he refused to change. It’s not meant to withstand snow or hold heat in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anything resembling shelter.

Stiles gets lost in thoughts about their current situation -- the snow falling steadily, the temperature that he knows is only going to drop, the distance from town _and_ from the mall -- when and unfamiliar sound comes from Derek’s side of the car. It takes a beat or two to register as a laugh, and Stiles’ jaw refuses to lift up, still dropped from the question Derek asked only a minute earlier.

“You think this is funny,” Stiles states eventually, when the laugh morphs into chuckles, and he can see Derek’s shoulders shaking.

His mind tries to pull up a memory of Derek laughing before this moment, but he’s coming up with nothing. Snark, sarcasm, mockery -- all those are something he’s used to, and Derek’s the only one who can keep up with Stiles in that regard. Genuine laughter, amusement like the one that he can see now that Derek turned to face him, that’s something he never saw before.

“It’s… yeah,” Derek says, and he shrugs his shoulders. “This was supposed to prevent me being stranded in a broken down car.”

Stiles cringes, because he was the one talking Derek into coming along.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he looks away and turns his eyes to the windshield.

“No,” Derek blurts immediately, surprising Stiles with the urgency in his tone. “That’s not…” he starts, but pauses when Stiles turns to him again.

There’s a pause, a moment of uncertainty between them, when Stiles doesn’t know what to say or whether Derek is going to finish the thought. Then it gets broken when Derek shakes his head -- Stiles doesn’t know if it’s a continuation of his thoughts or just a way to clear it -- and his eyes meet Stiles’ own.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, and Stiles cringes.

“It kind of is,” he tells Derek, thinking about the tape and other DYI methods he uses on the Jeep. “If you saw the engine…”

“I did. More than once. And okay, maybe it’s your fault for having a car that is running on fumes and prayers,” Derek says, smiling again. “But the fact that it broke down _now_ is not on you.”

“I suppose it’s better than if we were both stuck, just in different places?” Stiles asks with at attempt to keep his tone light, but he feels the hesitation creeping through his words.

“Yeah,” Derek says, which makes Stiles’ jaw drop again. “Why is that surprising?”

“Because there’s probably still an imprint of my forehead on this steering wheel?”

“You _know_ what that was for,” Derek grumbles. “It was also a long time ago. Things change. People change.”

“Well, you do talk more these days,” Stiles says with an emerging grin.

The mood in the car is a lot lighter, and Stiles lets himself relax. He’s still on edge simply because Derek doesn’t _talk_ usually, despite Stiles’ comment about change. Like the amusement and laughter earlier, it’s something that his brain can’t really compute, at least not without screeching to a halt with a huge neon “nope” sign.

“Maybe it’s that you let me get a word in for once?” Derek snarks back, and that’s familiar enough for Stiles to let his shoulders drop the last bit of tension.

They glance at each other, matching smirks on their lips, and then in a move that’s oddly synchronised, they both turn to the windshield and look at the snow falling.

“So, what now?” Stiles asks.

“Call someone to come get us? Call a tow truck?” Derek suggests, and they’re both things that Stiles is already contemplating.

“Did you call one for the Camaro? And do they do a two for one deal? Because I don’t know if I can swing a tow, or if I should just leave…” Stiles rambles until Derek interrupts him with a hand on the shoulder.

“You’d never leave the Jeep, so don’t even go there,” he says, and Stiles nods. “I didn’t call my mechanic yet, I thought I’d do it in the morning. Nothing he can do now anyway. My car isn’t in the middle of a road though,” he adds, glancing at the darkness past the windshield.

“Dad can’t come get us,” Stiles says, switching gears to the other question he asked. “Scott’s at the Alpha bonding thing in LA.”

“It’s not an ‘Alpha bonding thing’,” Derek says with a hint of irritation. “It’s a meeting to…”

“Communicate with other packs in the state, to forge bonds between them, and to potentially set up alliances so that the territory is safer, _and_ so that we can leave it without getting into trouble,” Stiles says, the words ingrained in his mind from how many times Scott repeated them after Stiles’ slightly inappropriate descriptions of the meeting he’s at.

“Not in quite such stilted and formal words, but yes, it’s about making nice with packs in the area,” Derek counters. “It’s about time he went to one of those. That _someone_ besides Satomi went.”

“You think you should’ve gone, back then?” Stiles blurts out the question before he can think about it too much.

“Maybe,” Derek admits. “But there was too much going on, so I couldn’t.”

“You would have though, after?”

“Laura did, in New York,” Derek says quietly. “We weren’t a pack, it was just the two of us, but when there was a meeting, she dragged me with as her Second.”

Stiles waits, wondering if Derek will share more information about his past, or about his family. He knows a little from what he read in a few old journals and books that were in the Hale family safe, but it’s not anything too personal.

Derek doesn’t continue though. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through the contact list, obviously trying to find someone who could come and help. Stiles’ shoulders sag in mild disappointment, and then he does the same, knowing that soon his fingers will be too cold to work with the touch screen.

“Lydia won’t come back,” he says when he pauses on her name. “She had some plans, which is why she left _me_ to do the late shift.”

“Cora isn’t back in town yet,” Derek says. “And I’m not calling Peter.”

“Oh no, please don’t, I think this is a bad enough situation already,” Stiles grumbles, and the shiver that runs down his spine isn’t related to the cold. “I think Parrish is working, but maybe he could get out here? We are technically a hazard on the road right now.”

He cringes as he says it, and remnants of guilt for getting them stranded resonate through his words.

“Try him,” Derek says simply. “I think someone from the station might be our best bet. I doubt anyone else will be willing to get on the road.”

The phone call is quick and simple when Stiles makes it, and Jordan promises to make it out to them with something to at least move the Jeep to the side of the road. When that’s done, Stiles rests his head on the back of his seat, and pulls his jacket closer around himself.

“It started snowing again,” Derek says after a few minutes, breaking the silence that somehow felt comforting instead of awkward like when they were driving.

“I love snow,” Stiles whispers, unwilling to disturb the temporary unexpected peace between them. “Mom would drive us out towards the Preserve on the first night it snowed, and we’d sit on the hood and watch it fall. She said it was the only time I ever sat still,” he finishes with a smile.

“I can imagine,” Derek responds.

“She didn’t know it was only because I tried to find a matching pair of snowflakes, just to prove science wrong,” Stiles says and chuckles.

“Of course you did,” Derek says, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think there’s fondness in the tone the words are spoken with. “Come on,” he hears Derek say then, and the door opens. “Let’s go watch some snow fall.”

“Are you saying I’m not sitting still?” Stiles asks, trying not to sound too offended. “I was completely motionless just now,” he adds, but he climbs out of the Jeep and meets Derek at the front lights.

“You do know that even when you think you’re _not_ moving, you are still fidgeting, right?” Derek asks, and he climbs up on the hood.

Stiles follows, and immediately shuffles almost too far to the side. The hood really isn’t wide enough for two people to sit on without being close. But it’s also a little warm still, though not dangerously so like it would’ve been right after driving.

“Stop it,” Derek says sharply, and he pats the little sliver of space between them that Stiles was trying to create. “I won’t bite,” he adds with a smirk.

“Yeah, excuse me Big Bag, I’m not buying that,” Stiles grumbles back, but he sits so that the gap between them is only wide enough for one hand. “I distinctly remember threats made about throats being ripped out with _teeth_.”

“That was a long time ago,” Derek says defensively.

“So what, you don’t sink so low as to use your own anatomy anymore?”

“No, I leave that to the rogue omegas that are stupid enough to wander into Beacon Hills these days.”

“Okay, okay, no throat ripping, glad to hear that,” Stiles says, and he fixes his scarf to keep his neck warm.

It’s only when he glances over to Derek that he realises how his gesture must look, and he drops his hands back on the Jeep’s hood immediately.

“You didn’t bring a hat,” Derek states after a few beats.

“Oh,” Stiles lifts up a hand to pat his hair. “Huh, I didn’t even notice. Guess I left it in the locker room when I was trying to get out quick so I wouldn’t be trapped at the mall. In the warmth, now that I think about it. Maybe I should have slowed down.”

“The night watch would have kicked you out,” Derek tells him, and Stiles watches him pull something out of the pocket of his coat.

“Oy, did you sneak out contraband?” Stiles asks, when he hears a soft jingle and sees a flash of red when the thing in Derek’s hand catches light from the Jeep’s headlights.

“No, the green ones aren’t worth the fine I’d be facing,” Derek says. “Lydia said I’d need to wear something festive for the pack dinner on Christmas Eve. It was this or reindeer antlers.”

“Okay, I would sell a kidney to see that happen,” Stiles says, chuckling.

“Hold still,” Derek tells him.

He reaches up to Stiles’ head and puts the hat on, both of them cringing a little at the sound of the bells from the hat’s tip.

“Thank you,” Stiles says quietly when Derek tugs the hat down low enough to keep Stiles’ ears warm.

Derek turns then, sets his eyes on the road in front of them that’s illuminated by the Jeep’s lights. Stiles, still processing what just happened with the hat, watches his profile.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Derek says into the silence.

“What?”

“I mean, I’d rather _not_ be stuck in snow at all, but at least it’s you,” he says.

“Is this a case of ‘well, this is the least dangerous possibility’ kind of a thing?” Stiles asks, Derek’s words confusing him.

“No, if I was trying to avoid danger, I wouldn’t see being around you as helpful,” Derek says, and he turns around to Stiles.

There’s a smile playing on his lips, and Stiles tries to fit it into one of the boxes his mind has for expressions. He has a memory collection specifically for Derek’s face, but he’s not going to mention _that_ out loud.

“Excuse me, I didn’t drag in any new creatures to Beacon Hills in a long time,” Stiles protests. “The last creep was totally Jackson’s fault.”

Derek just smiles, and then he’s suddenly leaning closer, and Stiles can feel a brush of warm lips against his cheek.

“You’re still a danger, most of all to yourself,” Derek whispers next to Stiles’ ear.

When Stiles feels a hand on top of his own on the hood, he automatically turns it palm up, and Derek wraps his fingers around it. Even through two layers of gloves, Stiles can feel warmth seeping through and onto his skin.

They don’t start talking then, not until they see headlights approaching opposite them. Stiles barely dares to breathe, afraid to try to process what’s happening. When Jordan pulls up in the station’s off-roader, both Derek and Stiles hop down, and Stiles steadfastly ignores Jordan’s glance to their joined hands. They move the Jeep out of the way, and then they all get into the functional car, Derek following Stiles into the backseat.

Their hands find each other again, and Derek puts both his palms around Stiles’ hand to warm it up. Despite the warmth inside, Stiles doesn’t thaw completely until they’re slowing down in his street. He feels like he froze all over again when Derek leans in just before Jordan parks. There’s another brush of lips against Stiles’ cheek, and a whispered “keep it” when Stiles reaches to pull off the red elf hat that Derek put on him earlier.

“It’s not _me_ who needs a bell so people hear me coming,” Stiles quips, and he shoots a smirk at Derek.

He doesn’t miss the blush on Derek’s cheeks after he says than, then he mentally facepalms at his choice of words. But he still chalks up the blush to it being cold outside, instead of trying to decipher what it might mean.

But then Jordan stops in the driveway of Stiles’ house, and Derek says something about being okay from there. Stiles lets himself be pulled out of the car and towards the porch, waves absent-mindedly at Jordan as he leaves, and then he’s alone with Derek again.

“So, this wasn’t what I hoped for,” Derek says, and Stiles immediately tenses, but doesn’t get to interrupt, because Derek keeps talking. “I mean, it’s not _bad_ for a first date, but I thought I’d ask you first.”

“You… what? You were going to ask me on a date?” Stiles asks, eyes wide open and staring at Derek.

The blush returns to Derek’s cheeks, and since Stiles watches the red darken, he knows this time that it’s not just because of the cold.

“Yeah,” Derek says, looking on the ground.

“What was supposed to be the first date?” Stiles asks, and he doesn’t bother hiding the hopeful tone in his voice.

“I was going to let you choose,” Derek says, and he looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes. “Movies or dinner, or both if you wanted to.”

“I like those,” Stiles tells him. “And I wouldn’t say no to either. With you.”

“Yeah?”

There’s so much hope in Derek’s expression and tone that Stiles’ heart skips. He’s feeling the same, but he also remembers Derek’s romantic history all too well.

“Yeah,” he says. “You could even come over in the morning and take me to breakfast. I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Then he leans in, and brushes his lips over Derek’s in a sudden burst of bravery. Derek’s fingers tighten around Stiles’ hand as he returns the kiss. It’s short, almost chaste -- it would be if it wasn’t for a certain part of Stiles’ imagination -- and ends too soon for Stiles’ liking.

“We do have to rescue our cars,” Derek says when he pulls away.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Stiles tells him, and he’s unable to keep the happy grin off his face.

“It’s a date,” Derek says, his own smile just as bright.

“Damn right it is,” Stiles says, and kisses Derek again before he steps back and towards the front door. “I expect to be wooed, Mr. Hale,” he quips as he reaches for the handle.

Stiles doesn’t hear if Derek says anything else, because he slips through the front door and then slams it behind him as the rush of what just happened hits him. He _doesn’t_ do a happy dance, but it’s a close call. Instead, he leans against the door, and grins when the bells on the hat break through the silence, then shakes his head -- both to try and clear it and to hear the jingling again.

Winter used to be his favorite season, and Stiles is pretty sure this year will make him love it again, the same way he’s already falling in love… and not just with snow. 

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [my tumblr](http://froggydarren.tumblr.com/) || [my sterek fic tumblr](http://triggeringthehealing.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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